And Love Goes On

I don't know how to even start. 

Several years ago, my friend Erynn went through a terrible loss. I remember appreciating her transparency, her realness during the time. I remember being grateful that she put her story on her blog so we could pray. During this last week, I've looked back on her story and been even more grateful that I had her story to refer to. 

Now I want to do the same. It hurts to share our story and it hurts to be real. There is a hole in my heart--in our hearts--that will never heal. But I'm fine with that. I'm okay with realizing that we'll never be the same. 

Samuel and I believe that every life is precious. We believe that life begins at conception and that a child is a child no matter how small. When we shared our news on our blog and with everyone we know and love, we wanted to give you a chance to love our baby too. I'm glad we did. I'm glad y'all got to know our little baby in just a tiny way before it was time to say goodbye.

Last Saturday, I remember feeling a strong urge for Samuel to just put his hand on my tummy. I don't know why. He did. And it was the last time we both got to experience that beautiful moment when the father of a baby places his hand on the place she's nestled in.

Sunday the 29th started like any other Sunday, except, if possible, crazier than ever. We picked up the shelter guests from the rescue mission, took them to early service, I played the piano, we sang in the choir and I played the offertory for the second service, then I taught Children's Church--all the while feeling very sick and pregnant. But by the time I got home, I was bleeding. 

It's a very normal part of pregnancy for many women. I knew that. But I knew it wasn't for me. That night, while Samuel was at work, I knew my baby had died. I don't know how I knew. It was the most awful feeling in the world to be alone and know that the little life I wanted more than anything was gone and I couldn't stop it or save it.

I had done everything right. I had taken my prenatal vitamins for three months before conception. I had cut back on caffeine. I was eating protein. I was drinking orange juice and cut out essential oils and strenuous exercise. I had done everything right. We had prayed over the baby. We wanted that baby so bad. But I knew Sunday evening that she was gone.

Getting into a doctor was a challenge and yet so much easier than it could have been.

I had not had my first prenatal visit yet. We literally walked into the OB-GYN office of Erlanger hospital and requested an emergency ultrasound. Within 2 hours, they had established me as a new patient, confirmed my pregnancy, and got me an ultrasound. 

The tech left after my ultrasound and came back with two doctors and some nurses. I had two more ultrasounds and the doctor confirmed that my baby was dead. It was nothing I already didn't know, but I was not prepared to be told that I needed surgery. In total, three doctors looked at me and said that my lining was three times thicker than it needed to be. They said I was full of big blood clots, some the size of the pregnancy sack. They said that my body was not likely to go into labor for at least a month--if not longer--and was not likely to expel everything. And that I was likely to hemorrhage if the process started naturally. And, even then, my body might not finish the job and fully recognize the loss of my baby. 

It was really scary for me to realize I had such huge blood clots and that there were abnormalities that are not usually in a 8 week pregnancy. I knew that DNCs were something that were normally not done until 10-12+ weeks and for them to detect so much tissue that should not have been there was unnerving. They had no answers for the stabbing pain I've had or why my lining was three times too thick. 

And, so, another doctor visit later (one that included a LOT of blood being taken and my passing out), my surgery was scheduled for Friday.

I'm not going to even pretend that the DNC was easy. Frankly, it was the scariest, most painful thing I've ever experienced. It was scheduled for 1:30 PM; I showed up at 10:30 AM after experiencing the confusion of hospital valet parking and trying to figure out where the surgical services even was. 

After almost three hours of waiting, they got me in and took me back for surgery. About then, the computers went down. They told Samuel I was in surgery when, in reality, I was waiting alone in a very cold pre-op room. I waited there for two hours, alone, no glasses, no phone, no Bible.

Nothing but waiting for them to take my little baby away. 

Samuel told me later that he was panicking because my surgery was supposed to take less than an hour. They took me away before 1:30 and I did not get back from surgery until 6:00. 

The doctors, nurses, surgeon...everybody was so sweet, so professional, so kind. They took my family history seriously and even prepared me with a blood band to be ready to do an emergency transfusion and had all the medicines ready to go--something they don't do with every patient. But the DNC was still the most painful thing I've ever endured.

Two of my friends who had DNCs experienced no pain. But my body didn't respond that way. However, some of my friends who have had abortions have described their pain as being out of this world and, as the two procedures are similar, I was not completely unprepared for it. I woke up to the worst pain I've ever felt and they ended up giving me morphine. I normally do well with pain, but not then. I think the combination of having never delivered a baby, my cervix not being ready, and the anesthesia all played a part in why it hurt so bad. I don't know. I do remember thinking back that I would never have wished that kind of pain on even my worst enemy. Not on anyone.

I'm thankful to Samuel's friend and boss for coming to sit with him. It meant a lot. 

I don't know what the physical recovery is supposed to feel like, but I suppose it's been normal. High emotions, crashing hormones, dizziness, pain, the feeling of everything moving around inside me as if it's going back to normal, headaches, disorientation. From everything I've read, it feels like I'm recovering well. 

I know this all seems so matter of fact. But there are no words -- even for a writer -- to explain what last week felt like and what we feel like now. Words have dried up. There is no way to eloquently explain gritty things like surgery, what it feels like to carry a dead baby for days, or physical pain. There is no way to explain a loss like that of someone you loved with all your heart but never got to meet.

I saw a drawing of a woman with a hole through her body. That's what it feels like. 

There were so many dreams centered around our little baby. We were planning a nursery. I already had a few baby gifts. There were so many prayers, so many wishes, so much love. 

It kills me to wonder if she had pain. That she died and I didn't even know. That it might have been my body that rejected hers. That we had to say goodbye before we even got to say hello. 

When we came home from the first ultrasound, God spoke clearly to my heart that my baby was a girl and that her name was Grace. That wasn't the name we had picked out for her. But it was the name God wanted her to have. 

My pregnancy verse had been Psalm 84:11-- "The Lord God will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly." Grace fits in with that. But it's so hard to explain the rest. It's so easy for me to believe the lie that God snatched my baby away from me because I somehow wasn't "upright" enough. That it's somehow my fault. It's taken a lot of prayer for me to realize that Grace was still God's blessing and His best for us. I believe in my heart that Grace is a blessing--that God did not withhold a blessing, but, rather, that He gave us one.

It's just a blessing that's waiting for us in heaven.

I've never been mad at God before, but I was in the days before the surgery. I know four months is not a long time to try for a baby, but it felt like an eternity to me. And then I carried Grace for two months before losing her. I really struggled with wondering why God would let me get pregnant only to take my baby away again. At first, I was convinced that I'd rather not have gotten pregnant at all.

The surgery was rough because I didn't feel that God would protect me. I honestly didn't feel that I would even wake up. None of the Scriptures I turned to comforted me. There was zero peace, zero comfort  before the surgery. It was the strangest thing for me. I am normally so close to Him, so able to hear His voice.  But in this case, I almost felt as if He wanted me to rely on the faith I knew to be true rather than the faith I could feel.

When I woke up from the surgery, I felt peace. I was in horrible pain, but that was the first time I felt peace. It was as if God wanted me to trust Him when I could feel no comfort, feel no assurance. 

For some reason, it changed everything.

Not that it's been any easier. I cry every single day and I probably will for the next year...or ten. I cry every night at bed and wake up every morning "holding" a baby that isn't there. I can't look at babies in the store or at church, and I'm torn between feeling so happy for my 6 friends who are all due around the time I was and feeling so broken that my baby is gone. There are no words to describe loving someone so much and knowing you will never see them on this side of heaven. 

A miscarriage is not just a loss of a baby you never met. It's the loss of all the hopes, dreams, wishes you had for that baby. It's the loss of every single birthday party, every smile, the first lost tooth, reading books together, every moment of life. For me, it's even a loss of direction in my life, since so many of my plans for myself were centered around the little life I expected to join us.

But I'm grateful now. 

I'm very grateful to be a mother. I'm very grateful to have a child. Even with all this horrible pain, I would not go back and wish that I had never gotten pregnant. Not any more. I'm glad I did now. I'm a mommy. Samuel is a daddy. And we got to love a little life that we created more than anyone will ever know. We still love her and always will. We are parents and we have a child. She's just waiting for us, that is all. 

People talk a lot about the love of a mother for her child. Not a whole lot of people talk about the love of a parent who has to give her baby back. It's a very special kind of love that cherishes someone you've never met and can never touch, never hold.

Love hurts. It always has and always will. That's why there is so much selfishness in relationships. People are afraid to get too close. They're afraid to love because they might get hurt. But you miss out on so much when you guard your heart against loving. It hurts us so much the more because we loved her so much, but it also comforts us to much to know that she never knew anything but unconditional love. 

Not only that, but she never knew the pain of this world. It may have been the best gift anyone could give a child--to see Jesus and heaven first and bypass all the suffering the rest of us have to go through. Not that I would have chosen that. I wasn't exactly jumping up and down to volunteer for this pain. But it does help that, for some reason, God wanted to spare her from life down here. I'm not sure why God needed her more than me, but it's definitely true that heaven is sweeter for her being there.

Today I pictured my Aunt Lydia and my Papa Sam holding her. I'm pretty sure Aunt Lydia was first in line to hold her. She would have wanted to be. This is my Papa Sam's first great grandbaby to make it to heaven. He loved me so much--I know he is loving my baby too. And Grace is probably playing with all my brothers and sisters who are in heaven. 

I'm not going to pretend that I don't struggle or won't in the future. Grateful as I am for the blessing of carrying Grace and just for the time we had with her, I do struggle. The media stories of parents killing their children, the abortions, the girls who get pregnant with children they don't want and can't provide for, the mothers screaming at their kids in Walmart... A lot seems very unfair and will probably always feel very unfair to me. I feel like God has enabled me to still be happy for my expecting friends, but I occasionally do feel singled out for a trial I can't handle.

I struggle with the comments about how we can get pregnant and have another one -- as if another one will ever replace our firstborn child and the unique, beautiful, special person she was. I struggle with wondering if I will ever get pregnant again and, if I do, if I will lose that one too. I struggle with the hospital bill that seems so high and so unfair when it was all for a dead baby. I struggle with the empty room that was going to be a nursery, but realistically may not be filled for at least another year. I struggle with my heart telling me that I'm a failure when I still KNOW that it wasn't my fault.

We're going to struggle for a long time. 

I say all this because it will help someone someday.

It will. 

We can't allow our trials to encourage someone if we refuse to be real about them. And I know that one day, somewhere, a grieving mother is going to read this blog and be encouraged to know that she is not alone. Maybe someone else will read this and get a glimpse into the pain and be better equipped to be a comforter. 

I've had SO many friends be there for me. Our church provided meals (oh my goodness, churches, do this for friends who miscarry. You'll never know what a blessing it is.) We've received such sweet cards, flowers, and words from people who loved our baby. I've had friends text me all during this, praying for me and encouraging me as I went into surgery and checking in on me during the moments I needed it most. Some of these friends I've never even met, but they cried for me and felt my loss. You know who you are.

Friends, I'll be there for you too. I know someone is going to read our story and need to talk. We're here. Everyone's loss is different, everyone's pain is unique. We won't pretend to say that it all feels the same to everyone. If it comforts you to talk about the past or the present, share your story on this blog (or in a private message.) Tell us your baby's name. Not everyone is willing to talk about their baby because it hurts so bad, but if you care to share your story or anything at all, feel free to share. It may comfort someone else someday. I know the stories I've heard have helped me. It really does help to know that other women understand this pain, other men have cried and been brokenhearted over the loss of their baby, other babies have beautiful names. Some people have never had the opportunity to talk about their baby. They're holding in a lot of hurt because they don't feel that anyone ever cared. We do. God does. And you can share it if you want to.

Pray for us. We're praying that God lets us see the beauty out of the ashes one day.